


Take Off (The Start Of The Ride)

by schmevil



Category: Fast and the Furious (2001 2003 2006 2009)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Surfing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-28
Updated: 2010-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-06 18:29:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schmevil/pseuds/schmevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brian learns to surf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Off (The Start Of The Ride)

The ocean curls up tight, and it's just him and his board. Black, and yet not - there's no end to this tube, it just keeps rolling on and he rides it as best as he can, hoping the ocean doesn't decide to spit him and his all too breakable board right out. He can't gauge the way this thing is going to move, he just feels it going and knows he's got to go with it.

His hearing is dead to everything but his blood, pumping fast and regular, and at the same time there's this roar, all around him that possesses him, from his bones to his skin.

It's like, words don't exist to describe it, but it's like being in the eye of a seriously badass storm, or the epicenter of an earthquake that's so massive, so complete that it's consumed everything, and all that exists is the shockwave. If he fucks up now, the board will shred – in less than seconds – and he'll be a hefty bag and if he's lucky, an unmarked grave.

And then – like it's bored – the water opens up and he's riding the ragged edge of a wicked curl, with no chance to get on top of it, but at least he's out. Every part of him works to keep him from wiping out – dammit not now – and the strain is like willing an engine to fucking rev, fucking go, now, faster.

It's the sweetest ride of his life, until it isn't. Oh shit, he thinks, and goes under, thanking god this beach isn't too rocky. He breathes out, hard through his nose. The weight at his ankle is his board, but it's coming from way above him – he's upside down. He tries to surface but the water keeps pushing him how it likes, and they don't really agree on what's desirable, right now.

His vision is just starting to black when he smacks rough into the floor and is dragged forward, his back opening up on the sand. The board, still attached to his leg, rushes up and clocks him – he reaches back, blind and stupid, and releases it. It shoots off ahead of him, riding on top of the wave, and then he realizes that the surface is just inches from his face. He pushes off with desperate strength and goes for it – his face breaks the surface and he breathes deep, oxygen and salt water, coughing a little, but not as bad as it could have been.

The rest is easy, familiar enough that he could get to shore asleep. Arms and legs, cold, tired and resentful, go into action, and if his form's a little sloppy, who's going to notice? The skin of his back stings a little, with every stroke. If he'd been wearing a suit, he'd have had less scrapes to look after, but he probably saved himself the repair.

He makes the shore in decent, if not good time, flops out like a beached whale, laughing.

Almost as good as a hot Miami night in his Skyline.

The flash of yellow and orange in the corner of his eye tells him his board made it too, so he won't have to cough up the pesos for a new one. He stumbles over to it, drops to his knees and checks it out. A little scratched, but good enough. He's got wax in his trunk and if there's anything worse, Marles can fix it. Dude owes him for the work he did on that piece of shit van, last week. He pulls off clumps of kelp, but leaves the sand – it's easier to brush off when it's dry.

The shore is deserted and perfect. Black streaks of driftwood break up the unrelenting grey and white of sand and sky, and shells grind under his feet. It's late but the water is still dotted with a few tiny figures paddling up to their next ride. There are prettier, softer beaches, but he didn't come all the way from Miami for girls in bikinis, and volleyball games. His grin widens.

He decides to call it a day, pushes up to his feet and tucks the board under his arm. A guy with ratty dreads waves to him from his seat out on the water. Brian squints. He salutes Deck, gets a grin – he thinks – in response, and starts up the beach.

There's a wide swath of powder-soft sand, before it gets rough with growth, but he's a little too tired for it to feel good under his feet. He lets his hips roll a little. His calves don't like it much, and his back even less. Ouch. He's got a date with some Bactine and at least eight hours in a bed.

Past the dunes there are a few scattered blankets, weighed down by shoes and bags, but no sunbathers, and soon the ground roughens into the gravel of the parking lot. The Skyline sticks out amongst the few scattered Jeeps and vans. He wouldn't normally take it to the beach, but it's not like he has any other transportation options. Brian doesn't rent cars, or boards, and he's not about to use Mexican transit.

He props the board up against the car and bends to activate the remote starter, where it hangs tight, on a thong around his ankle. Kids don't frequent this beach, but he checks out the paintjob just in case. There's a scratch he got in Arizona that he's going to have to deal with, but it's otherwise unchanged since his last race.

It's only been two weeks but it feels much longer, somehow – the days on the road seemed to stretch into months of silence. Stillness, despite the fact that he'd done Miami to Baja in three days, stopping for an hour of sleep here and there, cigarettes he'd twice quit, and greasy meals he never would have tolerated when he was living in Cali.

He pulls off his shorts and tosses them onto the floor of the backseat, exchanging them for jeans, a t-shirt and ancient runners. He forgot his briefs. Again. Three days and he's already developing bad habits. What's next, he wonders? Dirty socks? He seriously needs to find a decent laundromat.

He sticks the board through one window and out the other, and hopes for the best. It's not the best vehicle for a surfer, but it'll do. He grins at his reflection in the windshield and spins out of the parking lot.

In the glove he's got an address and a phone number. So far he hasn't called, and he hasn't cased the place. He came all the way across the continent to see the man behind the note, scribbled on a ketchup-stained napkin, but there's things he's gotta do first.

It was blind, stupid luck that one night, after the hottest race he'd had in months, Brian rolled down his window to find Leon staring over at him, from the driver's seat of a beautiful Honda. The best kind of stupid luck though, because out of all of them, Leon was the most chill, the least bitter. The only one of Dom's family who knew how to let things go - the only one who would forgive things that he maybe shouldn't. It made him easy to like, even when he was still kind of pissed at the cop who'd infiltrated his crew.

He didn't get in Brian's face, not really. Leon had this way of letting you know that you'd fucked up, without saying a thing.

Still, Brian stumbled through an apology, an explanation, something - he wasn't used to either - until Leon stopped him with a grin, and called him blondie. Snowman. Nicknames that were less unfortunate with the years of distance.

Typically, Rome was all over the subject, downright fucking delighted, and he and Leon hit it off as only kindred, partying spirits could. Another weekend-long party later, and Brian found himself sitting on the beach, an untouched Corona at one side, and a slightly drunk Leon on the other.

"It's beautiful out here," Leon said. "Almost as beautiful as Baja."

Brian recognized a straight line when it was fed to him, but he wasn't ready to run with that one. He just nodded. Silently watched the sunrise roll in over the ocean. Leon though, didn't want to let it go.

"That's where we were."

Brian wasn't sure what Leon wanted him to say. He was, in the now revised (but still valid, he figured) opinion of the LAPD, a fine judge of character, but Leon was so quiet, played everything so close to the vest. Everything about him was like a mirage, and what was underneath, Brian had never seen. "So close to the border?"

"He had a house there ready." Which made sense - nothing about the truck jackings had been spur of the moment.

Brian nodded again, part of him hoping that would shut Leon down, force him to drop the subject due to lack of interest. Another part of him, one that was difficult to ignore, hoped that Leon would continue, and tell him everything. Give him a lead.

Leon, it turned out, was another one of those fine judges of character, because he kept talking, and finally, over his last breakfast in Miami, he gave Brian an address and number.

Brian's been teaching himself to surf since he got here, with a little sarcastic help from the local experts. He'd tried surfing when he first moved to LA, of course, but back then he'd had other things on his mind.

But now, with nothing between him and the ocean, nothing but that note, he's really learning. Brian has never been afraid of forces of nature, but now he's discovering their language. He figures that when he's done talking with the ocean, he'll be ready for the man who sent Leon to him, on his way to wherever Leon's going on his personal great American road trip.

So he's learning to surf, making new friends and stretching his high school Spanish thin. But with everything other than the ocean he's playing tourist, deliberately making this the opposite of a job. This time he doesn't want to go in knowing everything, because that everything turned out to be pretty much nothing.

When he's learned how to ride those waves, he figures, he'll be ready for Dom.


End file.
